Love of the Game
by electricsymphony
Summary: Waverly Earp conquers her fears about allowing displays of aggression through Nicole Haught and said woman's passion and dedication to the sport of hockey. OR, Waverly thinks it's disgusting and vile when Champ fights but watches the deliberate skill and athleticism of Nicole's fights and is definitely something that's not disgusted. College Hockey AU but Earp Curse still a thing.


**Notes** :

I have a lot of unreleased sadness and pride for my hockey team getting so close to the Cup and yet still so far, and a lot of bitterness about the Penguins and the very narrow win they had over us.

So buckle up hockey loving Wayhaught fans, 'cause this is how we're going to get through the summer so fast you won't even miss the ice, m'kay? And non-hockey loving Wayhaught fans welcome one and all, and I do hope you'll learn to love the game as much as Waves will. ;)

(If you said, 'I'm not sure' to that, be assured my response was, 'Challenge readily accepted.')

Really, really glad to be writing for a new fandom (especially this one) and although this wasn't the original plan I had for a first foray into this fandom, I'm not disappointed. I hope you aren't either. :)

Happy 4 days till, guys! 3

(I made the idiotic decision of agreeing to a camping trip this weekend in New Hampshire embefore/em I binge watched the whole of this magnificent series two months ago, but worry not friends, I have a plan. That involves driving half an hour to the nearest town for wifi, and, in the off chance I do not find it, I shall use my phone reception to create a wifi hotspot, use too much data, have to pay for it later, and sign into the SyFy website to watch said premiere. I'm not crazy... I swear... My friends, however, will disagree.)

Hope you all enjoy. :)

Disclaimer: 'Wynonna Earp', its characters, plot lines and premise belong to Emily Andras, SyFy and their affiliates. I do not own anything detailed in this story, and I make no monetary profit off these writings. All rights reserved to respective parties.

* * *

Groans, bruising, blood and teeth; dark, sinister smiles and chilling, ominous laughter that to Waverley's ear sound like demons, taunting and baiting and mocking.

She hates hockey.

She really, _really_ hates it.

It's just an excuse for excessive brutality and hatred, and she's experienced enough of that in her life, thank you very much.

Plus, it makes Wynonna chide her for being a shitty Canadian, and while Wy somehow thinks this amounts to some sort of sin to Waverley's perfect image, she doesn't mind at all; in fact, Wy hasn't been smiling much this year (or the past few, even) and if some childish taunt returns that mischievous, goofy 'cat with the canary' smile to her older sister's face, Waverly will take every playful jab with vigor and enthusiasm and she'll happily come back for more.

(More often than not, Waverly will make inane and ignorant little comments on purpose just so she can see that smile as much as possible.)

Right now, though, her hatred for hockey needs no embellishment.

"Waaaves, c'mon babe... look, I know some of the fighting makes you feel weird or whatever, but seriously, it's the most important game I've ever played in, and if my girlfriend isn't there, how the hell does that make me look? It's not like you have to sit alone and look like a loser — Steph'll be there, _she's_ loyal to Jason, and all the other girls _love_ watching us. Look, everyone knows sometimes you can be a little _off,_ and we put up with it 'cause we love youbut it's a fucking hockey game. I'm not asking _you_ to play, what the hell is the problem?"

Did she mention that her boyfriend is a hockey player? (A fighter, of course. _Grinder_ , he corrects her constantly. She doesn't know the difference, and certainly doesn't care, but personally she thinks the auditory connotation for grinder is worse anyway.)

Champ Hardy, a boy with a ridiculous nickname and a demeanor to match his delusions of grandeur. Slick, smarmy, possessive and obnoxious, Waverly is with him because... _because_...

Her ruminations are sharply ended by an interruption she should've been expecting, and she's thankful because that continued train of thought wouldn't have lead anywhere good—

"Maybe _you're_ the problem, Chumpzky."

("It's a play on Gretzky," Wy explains to her two or three or god knows how many years ago when she started dating Champ, she can't remember, it feels like a decade; "It's to remind him what his delusional ass will never amount to.")

Both swiveling at the same time, Wy stands there with a huge, shit eating grin on her face.

"Piss of, _Earp_ ," Champ retaliates, a cruel smirk to match Wy's patronizing smile. Waverly is used to the cruel curve of Champ's lips, but she'd never heard quite as much vitriol infused in her last name before. Not from her boyfriend, anyway.

Wynonna's eyes narrow. "Are you speaking to me or your _girlfriend_ , Chump? 'Cause you do realize, as we happen to be related, that your insult applies to her too?"

Champ walks straight up to Wynonna, toe to toe. Thankfully, Wynonna's fairly tall, and Champ is... not. Especially for a hockey player.

"Did you hear me, Earp? _Fuck. Off._ I'm having a conversation with my girlfriend."

'My _girlfriend_ ', Waverly muses. An attempt at possessive behavior or an attempt to dismiss the reality that Waverly _is_ actually an Earp? At one point in her life, both of those things would've made her pleased. Now, they just make her ill.

"You're having a conversation with my _sister_ ," Wynonna corrects, in a tone so dark and chilling it borders on out of line. (Lines are important; clearly defined markers remind Waverly where she's meant to stand, especially when she has to quell impulses to be rash, or rude, or as aggressive as the rest of her family. Impulsive control is a model to live by, and she's been doing it as her religion of choice for _years_ — a way of life she chose the very moment she struck someone for the first and only time at 13, and she won't ever admit that it's gotten so much harder to keep with her lines every passing year.)

Champ's smirk turns downright malicious.

"Sometimes, I have to wonder about that. Waves is _Waves_ , and she's neither crazy or a bitch. Doesn't sound like an Earp to me, maybe she's adopted."

Wynonna's eyes flash with venom, possibly outdoing the vice-grip clench of her fists. Waverly wouldn't be surprised if Champ backed away at the sight of her gaze instead of her rigid battle stance. (That is, Waverly _would've_ been surprised if she'd been conscious enough to think in a rational state. As it was...)

"Say that again," her voice - it is _her_ voice, right? - hisses in a ferocity she's never heard before.

Waverly '5 foot and a barely' Earp is standing with her back against her sister's chest, her eyes black, the adrenaline in her stomach swirling red hot — wanting and wanting for nothing but blood, groans, bruising and teeth — and _fuck it_ , impulse control has flown straight out the window. She _wants_ to see him stagger back, cradling his head in his hands as a bloody tooth falls to the ground and he limps away with a horrible, purple bruise.

And then, attack and hate in her heart, she looks him in the eye, determined to watch every moment of it. And promptly freezes.

 _Willa_.

Willa's eyes.

Fear. Horror. Disgust.

Her stupid, perfect, _lovely_ dark blonde hair in disarray, hanging limp over her crumbled body.

Her confident, cocky upturned lips turned in downward pain, spitting blood and sporting a loose tooth.

Blood in all the creases of Waverly's fingers, and bile in her mouth.

Her father, hoisting her to her feet, patting her back, declaring his pride that she _finally_ stood up for herself.

( _Wynonna held her hair back that night for hours because she couldn't stop the tears or the vomit.)_

She thinks she knows — thinks she's _always_ known — why she hates hockey, why her stomach reacts so strongly to what should be a delicious hot dog as she watches Champ fight, but she's ignored those truths. Hell, she ignores _a lot_ of truths.

The physicality of it all, the aggression of it all... reminds her of her father as he stares down a barrel of a gun, or of Willa's vile, monstrous appetite of vengeance, and reminds her especially of whatever sick kind of (hereditary?) poison ran through her veins to make her strike her own sister.

Human nature, it reminds her of human nature.

Of the horrible, inescapable knowledge that revenant behavior isn't exclusive to revenants.

And Waverly isn't afraid of anything more than she is of human nature.

She pulls back, her eyes mollify, her stomach takes a sharp turn towards sickness.

"Leave, Champ; _please_." Her voice is mostly steady, and it's clearly not a request, but her tone breaks at the end, falls into its usual — its _trained_ — submissiveness.

"The game —"

"She's not going to the game," Wynonna snaps, and in _her_ voice there's not a hint of a question, of a vulnerability.

Champ sees the elder Earp's hard expression, and Waverly's solid resolve, and backs away. Maybe he ran out of fear, or just frustration. In this moment, it doesn't matter.

It takes a very long time for Waverly to muster enough courage to look back up at her sister, because she knows what she'll hear — ('What the hell was that, baby girl? Jesus _fuck_ , what possessed you to do _that_?" Then, a feral grin — "Should've taken it all the way at the point, eh? Show 'im the difference between an Earp girl and Stephanie 'Wanna Demon Barbie' Evans.')

Instead, Wynonna's eyes are bright, supportive. Her hand is outstretched. Her voice is uncharacteristically gentle.

"C'mon, Wave. This is the last place either of us want to be."

Grateful isn't something Waverly often feels, and when she does, she holds on for dear life.

* * *

She didn't hold on hard enough, clearly.

"Oh for god sakes, Wy, you have a sick sense of humor. Anyone ever tell you that?"

She's looking out at an oh so familiar skating rink, a hot dog jammed into her hands, and she groans at all the familiar feelings, smells, sights — but, there are discrepancies. The goalie nets are different, the concessions are in a whole other location, there are less seats, the adverts placed along the rims — _boards_ , she thinks they call them boards — are different, and for some reason, it's lighter.

Not the arena, or even the lighting.

She's not really sure what it is.

Maybe it's her heart, maybe that's a little lighter. She's not entirely sure, her heart has felt heavy since she was old enough to know what bright red eyes meant.

"Yup, every day of my life. Wear it like a badge of honor, always will," Wy responds, coy and knowing at the same time.

A snort impossible to suppress, Waverly laughs — "Only badge you'll ever qualify for, I'm damned sure."

Wy puts a hand over her heart in mock offense.

"Seriously, though," the younger girl sighs, "You told Champ we weren't going to the game, and you made it plenty clear to _me_ too!"

A full, hearty laugh from her sister almost — _almost_ — makes her subdue, sit back, stop the protest.

(She bites back everything, really, but at least when she bites back comments to her sister it's because she genuinely wants to.)

The residual anger at Champ has to go somewhere, though.

Wy shrugs, but her self-satisfied smirk doesn't lessen in the slightest.

"Chill, dude. D'you see a game going on right now?"

Waverly starts at the challenge, and makes a brief sweep of the action on the ice, and all she sees are four uniform-clad players casually shooting and passing, talking and laughing and generally fucking about.

"What's going on?" She demands, at the end of her — usually long, but currently quite frayed and torn — rope, her patience dwindling alarmingly fast.

"Careful, little one, or you might lose your status as 'The Genius Earp'."

Ah, great, more of those ridiculous and uninformed _labels_. She'd fucking love it if no one knew her name well enough to give her stupidly superficial monikers, really. 95 % of her daydreams involve this fairytale happening at least somehow.

"This is the _women's_ hockey team, Waves, and although Chump really _should_ be here —"

"Wy, honestly!"

— "Nah, you're right, that's too big a diss to these girls. A children's league, maybe, for the man-child that he is—"

"Oh for god sakes, Wy —"

"What? _That_ one's not mean, at least not by my standards. I hate those effing munchkin monsters and everyone and their mother knows it."

Waverly pauses, takes a deep breath, and grips her fingers around the cold, metal seat.

"Why are —"

"Eat your hot dog, baby girl, and watch some hockey without that idiot man-child dominating your vision."

"I —"

She doesn't finish her thought, which is certainly an irregularity for her, and she knows Wy must be staring, poised at the ready for a righteous, uptight dismissal, because apparently that's who people think Waverly is. She's going to be staring for a while though, because Waverly has never had such a hard time ripping her eyes away from anything before, except maybe a book no one has ever even heard of.

 _Someone_ , then.

One of the players has just shaken off her helmet, her assumably once neat braid coming apart with it and a tumble of long, auburn hair spills out like it's encased sunset in a bottle. The player — # 23, she notices immediately, which is weird, because the only thing she knows about Champ's number is that it's between 1 and 100 — shoots a sly, dimpled grin at one of the other players, and they both nod at each other, the atmosphere changing so sharply it knocks a breath out of her lungs.

And then, just like that, the gloves drop.

Oh god.

They do that godforsaken dance — the stupid, vile, brutish staredown of predator and prey that Waverly despises, and she waits. Waits for the nausea in the pit of her stomach, the tension headache, the jittery fingers, the visceral impulse to turn her head and pretend to look at something interesting. None of it ever comes, and she doesn't notice. A flash of red makes the first move, a punch is thrown, and still, Waverly doesn't look away. The only thing she feels looking at this woman is awe, and maybe excitement. There's certainly something brewing in her stomach that is _not_ nausea.

It's hot, alive, and keenly piercing, but not in that horribly painful way when Champ bites her neck and thinks it's sexy.

Her body is connected to a livewire, it has to be. There's no other explanation for the idea of any kind of pleasure at a display of such senseless violence.

But... it's not violence, not really. Not with these two. And it's as far from senseless as possible.

Craning her neck to get a better look at everything she's ever turned her head at, she notices it's incredibly deliberate, calculated and weirdly _poised_. In the disheveled mash-up of a brawl, she finds little except a smooth, coordinated display of... _talent_. Artistry, in a way. Good god, her stomach is clenching something fierce by this point, and she recognizes it now for the only thing it could be.

Desire.

God, has she _ever_ desired someone before?

(Yes.)

She doesn't spend even a second on the implications in that answer — confession — that she's never dared whisper to another soul and her eyes grow even larger the longer she looks at the scene. Her jaw promptly drops the same moment the girl opposite that perfect, deceptively strong flame haired _athlete_ is pushed to the ice. Shivers shoot to every bone in Waverly's body at the playfully devious grin on her — on _the_ — hockey player's lips as she hovers over her opponent. That enticing grin on those sensual, full, inviting lips.

Jesus fucking shit on a stick, that's —

"That's Haught," a voice supplies to her foggy, distracted brain.

She's not sure where the voice comes from at first, but ' _Hell fucking yeah you can bet your ass it is_ ,' is all her brain replies.

It sounds like _Wynonna_ , actually. Wynonna's here? Unless her conscience has suddenly developed a voice to resemble her sister, she must be. (Which, let's be honest, would be more absurd an irony than would suit even Oscar Wilde's tastes.)

Even the logical fact that Wy must be sitting right next to her doesn't pull Waverly's eyes away, or redden her cheeks, or do a single damn thing to peel her attention from the ice. Waverly Earp passed the exit for logic far too long ago.

A friendly, confident hand reaches out to the person under them, and a bright smile radiates a depth inside of Waverly she didn't know was there, even as it's not directed at her.

Laughter. This brilliant woman just fought her opponent, helped her up with a starkly contrasting gentleness and now they're both laughing in a clumsy, unsteady embrace.

"Wave?"

A beat.

"Baby girl?"

A second beat.

"Earth to Waverly Earp, we need the coordinates on your location to retrieve your consciousness."

She finally turns, and the blinding whitewash of the rest of the arena outside of a tunnel haze of flame and heat is so startling she sways, her feet tangling and twisting.

"That's Nicole Haught, I was saying." Her grin is the dictionary definition of the devil's work, and Waverly's stood next to an _actual_ demon before.

"Who?" Waverly feigns ignorance as she tries not to laugh and cry at the idea that this woman's name could actually be 'Haught'. No, c'mon... Wy's clearly riffing.

Rolling her eyes, the elder Earp scoffs — "That redhead player you were staring at to the point of eye fucking; she's in my Physics class."

Well, _now_ she's certainly beet fucking red. Great discretion, Earp.

"I wasn't —"

"Sure, baby girl, I believe you." A pause, and Wynonna is up and out of her seat, eyeing someone down on the bench that Waverly can't muster the energy to care about. She turns back to her sister, that gorgeous, infectious spark of mischief in her eyes — "Wouldn't blame you if you were staring, though, Haughtstuff is pretty awesome... and quite..." god, the raise of her eyebrows left absolutely nothing unsaid — " _accurately named_."

Literally sputtering, Waverly tried to remember a language, and she knew how to speak fluently in at least five —

"Catch you later, dude," is all Wy says as she retreats, with a hotdog in her hand that Waverly's pretty sure was in her own hand about ten minutes ago.

Goddamn.

Her calf brushes against something under Wynonna's vacated seat, and Waverly picks up the remainder of a flask filled with god knows what and chugs it down like a shot. Jameson, she acknowledges.

Her brain functions slowly catching up with her, she looks left and right in panic, wondering if anyone saw her very clear and uncharacteristic swig of alcohol, downed like the seasoned pro no one knew she was.

Sighing in relief at a seemingly empty stadium, she gathers her coat, tries to steady her shallow breathing and climbs down the steps, to the amused, bright face of Nicole 'Haught'.

"I've been meaning to introduce myself," she says, all playful charm — cocky but with a levity and humor that disclosed its true nature, everything she wished Champ was and everything he wasn't capable of. "I'm Nicole Haught," and she reaches out her ungloved hand. Her clean, _unbloodied_ hand.

Good god, the one time she _needed_ Wy's stupid commentary to be nothing but corny jokes, it _wasn't_.

The wo — _Nicole's_ — brunette friend is smirking, watching them from the bench — the one Nicole just _fought with_ , for god sakes— and her eyes look nothing like Willa's. Or her father's. Or _Champ's_ , even. They look delighted, equal parts genuine happiness and unabashed mischievous planning.

"I'm Waverly Earp," she responds, forgetting to put out her own hand because she's too excited that her voice actually came out relatively smooth. She didn't think those small miracles happened to her.

"Wynonna's sister, right?" She asks, and Waverly frowns so quickly no one could guess there was even a smile there to begin with. As if a magnet for the change in emotion, Nicole follows it up with, "I've seen you in the library so many times. Have been kinda mustering the courage to ask you what you're reading, but you always seem so..." She licks her lips, her eyes delightfully — terrifyingly — suggestive ... " _enraptured_. It felt like a sin to take your attention from something so interesting."

Sin... yup, the interruption of _intellectual_ stimulation was the only sin Waverly was thinking about right now, and that's the story she'd take to her grave.

God, she was going to hell. At least she'd have the familiar company of her least favorite beings in existence.

Waverly struggled as to where to lead the conversation from here. She'd never been good at leading anything, but for the first time ever, she didn't want to make weird goodbyes and hasty excuses. The thought was so viscerally unappealing that she did something so awful, so terrifyingly stupid that she could hardly believe she wasn't dreaming:

She let her voice speak its thoughts before her brain approved them.

"Why do you fight when you play hockey? What does anybody get out of it?"

Oh, _fuck_. Okay, time for the hasty excuses and a quick exit. Was there a vent anywhere, she was deceptively flexible and fit, and she could sprint and jump if need be.

Nicole's laugh pumped poison, fear and electric life into her blood all at once.

Stark honesty wasn't something Waverly got most of the time, or _ever_. She didn't give it either. So, naturally, Nicole rendered her speechless.

"For the challenge, the competition and that addicting feeling of proving assumptions false, for shedding expectation. When people see me fight, they get excited for a beatdown. I don't look like a fighter, and the girls I fight are a hell of a lot stronger and bigger than I am, but fighting isn't always about strength, Waverly Earp. Sometimes it's more about subtlety, craftiness, and the art of quiet brilliance. It's about taking care of your own, proving your worth, and protecting your team, _your_ _family_."

Holy shit was her mouth dry right now.

"I fight 'cause I love this family, and the rush and the ice and these girls... 'cause this game is about more than glorified boxing or aggression for aggression sake. This game is about skill, and nuance, and knowing the difference between when to fight for your all and when to walk away. It's both a lesson in restraint, an exercise of control and detail, and a show of valor for everyone you wake up to fight _for_ , on and off the ice."

"That's..." she began, but there wasn't an end to that sentence in sight.

Nicole laughed, this time a hint of bashfulness that Waverly wasn't expecting; "Too much weird cheese and awkwardly poetic sap, eh? Don't I know it, I get teased relentlessly for it. I just..." a hint of a smile, still shy — "You didn't seem the type to judge or tease when it came to getting too wrapped up in passion."

Another beat, in which it was definitely Waverly's turn to speak.

She didn't. This time, she didn't even try.

Nicole's confident grin returned like whiplash. " _Are you_ , Waverly Earp? The type to judge?"

"No," Waverly exclaimed hurriedly. Okay, good; at least she hadn't lost her voice. "Trust me, I'm the very _last_ person that would ever judge someone for being too weirdly passionate, no matter what about."

A very different kind of heat settled into her stomach at Nicole's wonderful, uninhibited smile — a much slower rising, bubbling simmer that was more of a warmth than a fire.

"Unless it was like, y'know, serial killing or pedophilia or..."

Oh fuck of flying seagulls, you idiot, you weren't even doing that badly up until now!

But Nicole's grin was so authentically _not_ patronizing or scandalized and Waverly lost feeling in her fingertips.

"So... can I come up to you next time I see you in the library? Just want to make sure I've got permission," Nicole asked, teetering on shy but remaining firm all the same.

"Yeah, no definitely; please do." Jeez, that enthusiasm didn't go way too high pitched, of course not.

"It's a date, then," Nicole smirked, all joy and light and _air_. Weirdly, the rink felt less like a suffocating hole in the ground and more like Purgatory's expanse of open fields than it ever had before.

Just short of walking back down to the bench, Nicole halted slightly — "You're going to be at our game opener Friday, right?"

Waverly's grin was so bright and automatic she could actually feel its effects herself — "With bells and whistles on, if security allows it," she said, smirk brazen as all hell and body language more than slightly insinuating.

Nicole's eyebrows shot straight up, clearly surprised, and Waverly — beneath her intense embarrassment and subsequent anger at the handicap in speed her brain was surely suffering tonight — felt something she couldn't place, but she thought this may be that addicting feeling of shedding expectation that Nicole alluded to earlier.

"Can't wait," Nicole finally says, and it's actually _breathless_.

Did she just make someone _breathless_?

Holy shit.

And as Nicole walks away, all she can see staring back at her are bold, block letters spelling out 'Haught'.

'Jeez on crackers, Waverly, you're a fucking hot mess.'

'A mess _for_ Haught, actually, methinks,' a voice that is _definitely_ Wynonna's purrs in her ear, enveloping her mind.

Conscience my ass, she thinks, Wynonna's voice is more like the devil on her shoulder.

Ugh, that's so much worse.

In a desperate attempt to think of anything but Wynonna's canary grin or Nicole's flame red charm, she forces herself to think about Champ.

But all she can recall in that moment is that Champ's answer to 'Why do you fight when you play hockey?' had been 'To gloat over how stupid and weak the other guy looks after I pummel 'im in the face.'


End file.
